


party like the kids are away

by shades



Series: Softcore Suburban Barebacking [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AIs are beautiful adopted children, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Humor, M/M, competitions in big gay parenting, softcore suburban barebacking, when the kids are away the parents will play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades/pseuds/shades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had been a fight about sending the boys off to football camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	party like the kids are away

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my ongoing Softcore Suburban Barebacking verse, inspired by the [random tag generator](http://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/post/122127092751/astriferousaesthetic-go-find-what-a-fic-of-ur#notes%22) that went around tumblr a while back.

It’s Sunday afternoon when he drops the boys off, so the Turnpike is mostly open, and the sun is a brilliant, beating disc in the sky, not a cloud to cut the glare.  York fumbles his sunglasses out of the bin between the Jeep’s seats and slides them over his face.  The exits for the shore are coming up, and some sweet young things in the car next to him are giving him the eye, drinking straight from a bottle of Jack Daniels and pumping whatever they’re playing on WPST - tinny pop music ballads.  The girl in the passenger side flips her hair in the wind battering in the open window and shifts her cleavage into a slightly more flattering angle.

 _Still got it_ , York thinks, and gives the girls a grin.  He took the doors off the Jeep for the summer, driving in a wife beater and old cargo shorts, and hours of doing yard work had given him the kind of tan that he knew, deep down, his pasty faced husbands were jealous of.  It was probably why they hit him with the hose whenever he’d been “prancing around shirtless in the backyard,” for too long.  

The girl in the backseat smiles at at him - and she’s, what?  Twenty-one if the booze was any indication, but that hadn’t stopped him when he was 16.  If he looks too close, he’ll probably see backpacks and school notebooks in the back seat.  Delta and Theta have just gotten out of eighth grade, loud and rambunctious, starting to eat them out of house and home.  And if that doesn’t make him feel old, the crows feet and hair dye hiding under the master bathroom sink sure do.  

He imagines North sitting next to him, rolling his eyes, or Wash muttering about the girl’s GPAs and after school circulars including tending to the elderly, and he puts his blinker on for the next exit.

*

There had been a fight about sending the boys off to football camp.

“It’s expensive,” Wash had said, folding his arms in the kitchen.  

“Shop’s doing well,” York had said, chopping onions.  “I think we’ll be able to swing the fees.”

“The boys really want to do it,” North had said placidly, nursing a glass of wine where he’d stood by the kitchen island.  “They’ve been begging all year.”

Wash had rolled his eyes, “They’ve also been begging for matching Lamborghinis, and that’s not happening, either.”

“You’re just worried you’re going to miss them.”  York had grinned at him.  “Week’s a long time, momma.  What the longest you’ve been away from them, huh?”

“The three days when I had my appendix out,” Wash had muttered, averting his eyes.

“That was more than ten years ago,” York had said, crossing and hiking Wash’s shirt up enough to brush his fingers over the old, whited out scar.  

Wash had tipped his forehead onto North’s shoulder, sighing.  “You guys know that repetitive concussion syndrome is a thing, right?  And, really, only Theta wants to go - Delta would just follow him anywhere.”

“They’re not signing a contract with the NFL,” North had said in his Understanding and Reasonable tone of voice. “And, give Delta more credit.  He’s put on five inches and 20 pounds this year.  He may actually like football.”

“He’s taller than me,” Wash had said wistfully.  “And, honestly, I think he’s more interested in the statistics and fantasy leagues, but he’d do anything to impress Tee.”

“Don’t be a tiger mom,” York had said, brandishing a spoon covered in tomato sauce at him.  “Besides, it means it’s a week of Kids Free Sex.”

Wash had brightened, and York knew they had won.

*

When he pulls up in their driveway, York curses.  Donut and Dr. DuFresne are making their way up their sidewalk with a covered dish.  Donut is wearing an immaculate gingham apron, only slightly dusted with flour.  

“Why hi there neighboreeno!” Donut calls as York threw the Jeep into park.  Right now, in the house, Kids Free Sex is happening and York is stuck out here with the local nut jobs.

“Hey Donut, Doc, good to see you,” he says, “How ya doin?”

“Just peachy thanks for asking!  I thought I’d drop by with this coffee cake, celebrating Kids Free  Day, am I right?”

“We put the boys into Montessori Day School for the summer,” Doc says with a pretentious little smile.  “We really think that Grif and Simmons are self-teaching learners.”

“And well, you know how - well, he’s insisting we call him Sarge this week!  What _will_ they think of next?  ‘ _Sarge_ ’,” Donut goes on, and York can just about hear the air quotes, “Well, he does need _lots_ of interaction to make the best of these important learning years!”

Donut shoves the flawless coffee cake into York’s hands.  Damn him, it looks delicious.  “What are your boys up to?”

 _Oh, liberating virgins and drawing on bathroom stalls,_ York wants to say, because from that snooty little tip to Donut’s nose, he can tell that’s what he’s thinking.

“They’re at football camp for the week,” he says brightly.  “They’ve been looking forward to it since school got out.”

“Oh, wow, that sure is physical!” Doc says, “We usually try to keep the boys on a subdued day plan, it sure is good for the digestion.

York does _not_ say that he’d watched the boys build a trebuchet out of a wheelbarrow, loose timber, and underwear elastic last week, because he’s a good neighbor and he’s not gonna narc on those kids to their parents.  As he recalled, they’d tried loading the family’s long-suffering nanny, Lopez, in as cannon fodder.

“Well,  takes all kinds.  Look, I’ve got to -“

“Mind if we come in for a bit?” Donut says cheerily, “I’ve got a pork casserole recipe I’m just _dying_ to share with David!”  

“You know, I’m sure _David_ would absolutely love that,” York says, knowing that there’s nothing Wash hates more than having Donut in their house, prattling on about lace stitching and the latest LGTB parenting group outings, as if he’s trying to out gay parent them, “But he’s actually down with the flu.  Him and North both - It’s a nightmare in there,” he adds, backing swiftly to the front door, “Just, puke and mucous everywhere.”

“I really can’t recommend a nice warm aloe vera suppository enough!” Doc called.  “Also, you should apply a damp towel to the backs of their knees!”

“Right, great, thanks!  I’ll get right on that, wish I could talk more, thanks for the cake, see you guys next week - _Christ_ ,” he mutters, shutting the door behind him, and allowing himself to lean against it for a moment or two, until the bubbling voices drift away down to the street.  The cake is almost spitefully lovely, rich golden brown on the top, with what smells like some sort of rum cake base.  That sonofabitch,  Donut _knows_ how much Wash struggles with baked goods.

York sets it down on the dining room table, toeing off his shoes and kicking them vaguely back towards the door.  The house is uncharacteristically silent, no muffled video game profanity floating up from the basement, or sad, emo music echoing from Dee’s room.  Just the sounds of the house settling, and, just barely on the edge of hearing, Wash’s voice rising in volume.

York grins and turns toward the stairs.

It was times like this that he remembered the first time he’d caught Wash and North at it in some awful sand-pit locker on their third Iraq deployment - he’d been restless, getting used to his missing eye, prowling into the locker room at 3am, only to find Wash desperately clutching the sink in the bathroom while North pounded into him, both of them still mostly dressed, dripping sweat, dog tags dangling from their necks.  York had panicked at first, watching North’s huge hand tight around Wash’s throat, pressing in enough that Wash’s breaths came in huge, gasping breaths, but Wash had pressed back into North, begging, head bowed, and without thinking, York had pressed the heel of his hand against his crotch.

That was the start of all this, years ago, but they’d come a long way since then.

“Ah!” York can hear Wash almost shouting as he climbs the stairs, in that mindless, unselfconscious way he got when they’d been at him for a while.  “Ah, ah - please, can I -?”

York hears the soft, rumbling assent from North.  At the landing, sun spilled in from the bedroom, lighting up dust motes in the afternoon light.  Wash let out a wrecked, keening moan that was hard wired into some primal part of York’s mind.  

The bedroom door was an open invitation, and for a moment, York enjoys taking in the sight.  Wash’s hands are tied by a length of silk to the slats in the head board.  He’s stripped bare on top of the covers, legs tossed carelessly open on the fresh linen, his chest rising with hitching, uneven breaths.  Between his legs, North is naked and still pressing open mouth kisses to the bands of muscle in his thighs, and from the movement of his left hand, York can tell that his fingers are still busy inside him, sturdy, firm thrusts that bleed sobs out of Wash.  

“In a few seconds,” North says in the tone York has come to think of as his Dom voice, “I’m going to untie your hands.  Then I want you to count down from ten and open your eyes.  Do you understand?  Don’t talk, just nod if you understand.”

Wash nods drowsily, and on his way up Wash’s body, North presses a reverent kiss to his sternum.  When he unties the knot, Wash’s hands hit the mattress without resistance.  

“You’re so good for me,” York hears North whisper, pressing a kiss to Wash’s unresisting lips as he pulled away.  “Are you counting?”  Another nod.  “Good.”

North raises an eyebrow at York as he strides away from the bed.  He’s soft, had probably fucked Wash without letting him get off, finally letting him spend in his mouth with those clever fingers curled up inside Wash - York had watched that show many times, and it never got old in reruns.

“You started without me,”  York says and North kisses him - he tastes like spunk and Wash’s mouth.

“You were late,” North says, and leaves to trot downstairs.

Without stripping down, York lays down in the bed on his side, tucking Wash’s sweat shined body against him.

“Hi,” he says softly, brushing Wash’s sweaty hair off his forehead.  York is hard, but not urgently, it’s something he’s more than willing to keep banked for now.

Wash just makes a soft, pleased nose and burrows into his neck - he’s completely pliant like this, if York just trailed his fingers down, past where Wash is soft and over sensitive, over the soft fuzz on his sack, to where he’s still half open and slick -

Wash made a pleading, broken sound as York’s fingers slipped inside him, hips rolling impatiently.

“Maybe I’ll have you next,” York murmurs.  “Maybe I can have North tie you down over the desk in the study -“

“You’re stealing my afterglow,” North says, reappearing still unashamedly naked, carrying a warm towel and a glass of red wine for Wash.

“I’m _sharing_ your afterglow.”

North rolls his eyes, and gently they rearrange Wash so that he’s leaning against York’s chest, cleaned up and sipping the wine with the dazed out expression of someone that’s been at a music festival for three days on all the fun drugs. York stole the occasional sip of wine.

“The boys?” Wash asks, ever the mom and still slightly slurring.

“They’re having a blast.  Ran into the DuFresnes outside - they wanna talk crockpot recipes with you.  Told them we’d come over for their Big Gay Sunday Brunch.”  

Wash makes an inarticulate sound of betrayal and York gathers him close, pressing a kiss to his temple.  Beside him, North rolls his eyes and pinches York’s elbow.

“Just kidding,” he says, “I told them you were sick.”

“ _You’re_ sick,” Wash says petulantly.  North steals the glass of red away from Wash for a sip and then sets it on the bedside table.  He folds his huge frame close beside them.  Wash’s warm bulk is resting nicely against York’s hard-on, and he feels half drunk on Wash’s wine and subspace.  

“You doing okay?” North asks in a significant way, taking proprietary pleasure in the way Wash lounges all fucked out in York’s arms.  North slid one huge hand from York’s shoulder, pressing invitingly against his throat.

“I’m good,” York says, with all honesty, half-hard, wanting, boxed in by the smell of fresh sheets, spunk and his two idiot husbands.  Wash turns in his arms, getting comfortable.

“Maybe later,” York says, rubbing his thumb down Wash’s ear, looking down his lean, cut body - Wash’s legs are tangling with his own, and North is watching them with the kind of gaze that could make men feel safe in the face of screaming hordes of enemies.  

He takes a deep breath through his nose, allowing himself to come unraveled.  “Maybe later.  But - this is nice, right now.”

North kisses him for a long moment, the only sounds are their lips and appreciative noises from Wash.

 _Still got it_ , York thinks, and lets himself doze.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me over at allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com, usually having feelings of considerable magnitude.


End file.
